To Reap, Perchance Red Pants
by ShiningMoon
Summary: Sherlock seems to believe that John's modeling a murder victim's red pants is essential to capturing the culprit. John severely regrets having gone drinking with Lestrade the night before.


NOTE: This is my entry for the Red Pants Contest at fuckyeahjohnlockfanfic on Tumblr. There was 5000 word limit. Also, the title was totally not intentionally a reference to Reapersun, the almighty inventor of John in Red Pants, but I about died the day after I titled it when I realized what had happened.

... ... ...

The first line of this story is a misleading one:

"The carpet did not match the drapes—just as I suspected."

The above is not the beginning of the sort of story implied to be delineated here by the title.

"And let me guess, you deduced that before you even walked into the room?"

That is because this is, in fact, the _end_of a story about an amateur arsonist with a poor appreciation for fine fabrics.

"Of course I did. The rug was clearly Oriental, imported years ago, part of a set. This arsonist's life of crime has been a laundry list of failures; he left plenty of evidence of his being here. He attempted to burn the house down but, since he fled immediately, did not realize until later that he only managed to catch the drapes before the flames died out. Plastic packaging from a furniture shop in the bin—the owner of the house replaced them." Sherlock seemed to be texting as much to Lestrade as he spoke. He slapped the most recent, concluded case file onto the table decisively and stepped toward the microscope slides that were littering the kitchen table, part of a different case-in-progress he'd been called to work on yesterday.

That was the end of a story about arson.

But _this_—

"John, I need you to fetch something from yesterday's crime scene for me."

_This_is the beginning of a story about red pants.

... ... ...

In truth, the story about red pants started the day before, when Lestrade had

Given Sherlock a new case about a key member of a drug ring they had been trying to dismantle, found inexplicably dead. Of course, neither John nor Sherlock could have known at the time that a few short words about acquiring evidence from the scene would later send the world crumbling down. Well—perhaps that's a bit overdramatic, and a bit inaccurate. It wouldn't be so much a "crumbling down" as a "sexing up." But you're not to know that yet, of course.

"I mean, of all the people to get murdered, he was a good choice," Lestrade crossed his arms, looking down at the body of the man, sprawled across his bed. Sherlock paced about the room searching everything _but_ the body; John, for his part, concluded that the man had been killed by some sort of poison. (If this were a story about poetic justice, he would have died by one of the drugs he sold. But this isn't a story about poetic justice. It is, as we have already established, a story about red pants. Not that red pants and poetic justice are mutually exclusive, but let's not get distracted, hm?) "The thing is," Lestrade continued, "now all his friends are on guard and about ten times more difficult to catch than they would've been."

"Some sort of a rivalry thing, then?" John guessed.

"Something like that," said Lestrade, and Sherlock snorted. "Oh, what? Don't tell me it's not."

"Six of my nine current theories disagree with you, yes." Sherlock opened the top of the deceased man's dresser drawers and glanced in before frowning and shutting it again. John peeked in afterward: color-coded pants. _Good god._ It was worse than Sherlock's sock index.

"You won't find any hidden drugs here," Lestrade said. "We've already checked."

"Yes—well, you say _checked_," Sherlock ran his fingers between a few of the slats of the blinds and then sniffed them. "Forgive me if I believe there's something you didn't find." Lestrade exchanged an exasperated roll of the eyes with John. Finding something hidden in this room _would _be impressive, John thought—it was more pristine than a five star hotel.

"I need to stop by the arson victim's house this afternoon to verify something," Sherlock said, finally pausing at the body to check the dead man's pockets. "I suspect I will have an answer for you on both cases tomorrow." (He wouldn't, actually, but he couldn't have known that. No one particularly plans on red pants disrupting detective work.)

"Arson?" said Lestrade.

"Yes. Oh, did you think it was some sort of disgruntled furniture shop worker, dashing about London setting bits of peoples' home ornaments on fire?"

"Just solve it," Lestrade groaned.

"I'm taking this," Sherlock trimmed out a bit of the interior fabric of the victim's coat pocket with some scissors he had magicked from his own coat, "and these," he yanked out a few hairs.

Lestrade was clearly too exasperated to put in the effort to argue. "Anything else?"

"Ah! Yes." Sherlock retrieved a pair of the man's socks from the top dresser drawer.

"Just put them back when you're done. Christ, this week's been too much already," Lestrade sighed and turned to John. "I'm off duty in about half an hour—interested in grabbing a pint?"

John turned to Sherlock, who shrugged. "You needn't accompany me," Sherlock said. "Don't worry; I won't be in mortal danger. Merely investigating some decor." John arched an eyebrow, perhaps not entirely convinced, and Sherlock sobered slightly. "I mean it."

"Right," John nodded, and turned back to Lestrade. "Sure. Okay. Let's do that." (John will regret this decision tomorrow morning. Later, he will regret it more than almost anything else in his life for just a few seconds. Then he will very suddenly not regret it at all and be generally rather glad to have done it in the first place. But we're not there yet. Give it a day.) He glanced to Sherlock. "I know you'll say no, but I'm sure you're free to come along once you're done."

"I think not," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I neither wish to 'talk football' nor witness your attempts at chatting up women."

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't ch—" John started, and then shut his mouth and paused before finishing with, "—manage to get a word in edgewise with anyone if you came along anyway."

"Yes," Sherlock agreed with slightly narrowed, calculating eyes. "That is true."

"Right, well, I need to get some paperwork back to the office," Lestrade ducked past Sherlock and John and whatever oddness was going on between them. "John, I'll see you at the usual spot. And for the love of god, Sherlock, please _once _let John leave of his own volition." (This was not unreasonable for Lestrade to request. It frequently happened that when Lestrade and John tried to have a relaxing evening at the pub Sherlock happened to be coming by the area for unrelated Work Reasons, and naturally stopped by to keep John from making a fool of himself, or else needed John to assist him in a delicate procedure for an experiment. Sometimes Sherlock simply very much needed an audience for a trial of his latest composition for violin, which, he would say, was happening tonight and might never happen again. He used that reason more than any other, because John seemed to respond to it the most readily. Sherlock still had a backlog of twenty-seven compositions he had dreamt and puzzled out during the time he had been dead. He pretended each was new when he presented it to John. It _was _new when he presented it to John.)

"You needn't worry," Sherlock said. "I won't be bothering you."

... ... ...

He didn't bother them. As John would learn the next morning, Sherlock did exactly as he said he would and went back to the site of attempted arson and observed about the curtains and the rugs and the rubbish bin. After that, Sherlock went back to Baker Street and ran a few tame trials of the effects of atropine on ants from an ant farm John had given him. Just a few. John would never notice the difference. Or maybe he would; John seemed to take a particular interest in the things. Sherlock supposed there must be some insect more interesting and useful than ants that he could branch into, he and John. He filed the thought aside for later, in a folder he saved for sentimental thoughts.

Sherlock ran his trials, replaced the remaining ants on the mantel by the skull, and set to work on refining one of his compositions. There was little left to refine, and so he set out a fresh sheet to write a clarinet accompaniment. John would never find it, let alone play it (and Sherlock doubted he had the skill anyway; he could tell by John's pinkie fingers that he hadn't picked up a clarinet in something like two decades—but he could also tell by the bobbing of his head to orchestral and swing recordings that he _had _played clarinet), but Sherlock found it satisfying to know it was there. It was no different than any other piece of evidence that was clear as day to Sherlock but invisible to all others.

Sherlock fought the impulse to send John a text, and instead retired to his room with John's laptop and the evidence he had taken from today's crime scene. He heard John enter much later: not sober, judging by his footsteps. He wouldn't need help up the stairs; John never needed help up the stairs. He made it up slowly (sliding against the wall, leaning heavily on the railing—he and Lestrade had gotten a bit carried away, then, or he and whoever else he'd met there) and then collapsed into his bed. Sherlock tuned out any sounds that happened after that. Pub night. Just because John hadn't come home with a woman didn't mean he hadn't met one. Sherlock set back to work on his research, and several hours later, drifted off.

... ... ...

John—who, you will remember, is due for a bit of regretting his night out—awoke with a pounding head and churning stomach. He had been expecting Sherlock to show up and drag him away as usual at some point the night before, but it hadn't happened, and perhaps he and Greg had been rather enjoying the evening, and had not really kept track of the time or their alcohol intake. Greg had it worse, though—at least John didn't have to report in to work bright and early. It was, by this point, eleven in the morning.

However much he'd enjoyed whatever they'd spent all that time doing in the pub, he was paying for it now. But there was no lying back down and sleeping until it went away—he was awake, and that was that. And anyway, John thought, as he slid his legs over the edge of the bed and stood—

"John!" came Sherlock's voice from the floor below.

—and anyway, Sherlock would no doubt be demanding his attention for something for this latest case soon enough.

"John, I know you're up; I heard you get out of bed, I need—"

"Christ, Sherlock, settle down!" John shouted, and the loudness of his voice rattled his brains. He retrieved fresh pants, trousers, and shirt, and donned them. (These pants are not red. This story is not _that_ anticlimactic.)

"Ah!" Sherlock exclaimed as John ambled down the stairs. John winced at the light that poured into the sitting room. "I hope you're still prepared to assist me in continuing my investigations today, despite your current state," Sherlock's nose wrinkled slightly.

"Yeah, I get it, lesson learned," John grumbled, making his way to the kitchen to put the kettle on, which of course Sherlock couldn't be bothered to do no matter how hung over John was. "But, you know, I'd probably have learned it a good while earlier if you'd stop dragging me away after two hours every time Greg and I go out."

"Don't bother with the tea," Sherlock said. "You need water."

"Oh, so you're the doctor now?" He had a point, of course. John fetched a glass of water instead. He'd have his tea in a bit.

"You may also locate in the refrigerator a number of 'sports drinks,'" Sherlock suggested, apparently glancing over some sheet music. "I no longer require them for my experiment, so you can drink them. I believe they will help you recover more quickly."

John pulled one out after gulping down his water, eying it suspiciously. "You were doing an experiment with sports drinks? I don't remember—"

"Yes, of course I was!" Sherlock snapped, and then recovered his composure. "It was while you were out. I've thrown away any that are contaminated. As you can see, the seal on the one you are holding is intact."

"Right," John cracked it open. "Well, thanks."

Sherlock shrugged. "Aspirin and toast on the table as well."

"Not also leftovers from an experiment, I hope?"

"I made myself toast and decided I didn't want it. I suspected you would be feeling out of sorts and expect you will be much more helpful once you recover, so I hoped to expedite the process by retrieving the aspirin for you."

John blinked slowly at the toast a few times, possibly trying to process its existence. "Thank you, Sherlock."

"Yes, well, no thanks to you for your poor decision-making."

"Oh, yeah, my track record on bad decisions is loads worse than yours, is it?"

The corner of Sherlock's mouth dipped and he returned to his sheet music. John picked up the toast and carried it over to the sitting room with the sports drink. "Hey," he paused in front of the mantel, "what happened to your ants?"

"What do you mean?"

"There are definitely fewer than there were yesterday. And no dead bodies to explain it, either."

"I may make a detective of you yet, John."

"What did you do to them?" he pressed.

"The colony will recover," Sherlock said, but guilt tinged his voice. "I merely isolated a few for an experiment. They haven't _all _been poisoned."

"_Poisoned?_" John rubbed at his temples. "Christ, am I glad I didn't get you a dog."

"I as well. The ants are much more interesting, although I was thinking b—"

"Right, well, I'd appreciate if you stopped killing them off."

"They are _my_ ants, are they not?"

John frowned. "I suppose you're right. Still—"

"—which seems a bit erroneous considering you contribute equally to ensuring they are fed and healthy. I hereby grant you, John Watson, joint custody of the ants."

"O-okay." John gulped down a rather larger than comfortable bite of toast, flustered. "Well, I'm sure you didn't call me down here just to tell me you've been killing our ants. Or I hope not," he grumbled and sank into the chair.

"Nonsense. I thought you might wish to know what became of the arson case."

"Solved it, did you? Find what you needed yesterday?

"Yes."

"So what was it?"

"The carpet did not match the drapes—just as I suspected."

You may have reasonably guessed that this is the same misleading first line as started our story. You would be correct (well done). You may also remember that in a few minutes, Sherlock is going to make a request of John to retrieve some evidence, and at some point thereafter the world is going to come crashing down.

The arson case closed, Sherlock returned his focus to their investigations yesterday, to the research he had done last night. "John, I need you to fetch something from yesterday's crime scene for me."

"Right at this very moment?" John buried his face in his hands. "It's too bright outside, Sherlock. Can't you?"  
"I'm afraid not, John. I have work to do here; as you are certainly in no fit state for deep thought, it's best I send you on errands requiring significantly less brainpower. It's an easy task, but important. It could be the difference between catching the murderer today and having to wait for him to strike again."

"Right, yes, okay," John stood and grabbed his keys. "What is it that you need me to get?" He rubbed at his eyes and prayed that the aspirin would kick in sooner than later; outside it would be too loud for him to see and too bright for him to hear. Even in the quiet of their flat everything was unbearably sharp and fuzzy.

"Red pants."

_Red…pants…?_ Oh. To go with the sock and the pocket cutting. Of course. "Okay, sure, any particular—"

"All of them," Sherlock said. "Any you find."

"Okay, all of the—"

"They _should _be trim. That's very important. I recall their general shape, but assigned little importance to it at the time. How they look could have everything to do with how he died, do you understand? You could check that for me as well."

"Check…?"

"Appearance was very important to this man—you saw the number of cleaning products he kept handy, the neat folding of all of his clothing. So they'll look very nice; decorative, even, rather than functional—well, as far as functionality goes with such things," Sherlock was pacing now, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "I'm not sure I can completely trust your judgment on the matter, however, so I'll need to see. You can simply present them in an order based on your initial evaluation to make it easier for me."

"Okay, so…" John was trying to fight down redness that was creeping from his chest to his face. Sherlock wanted him to model the victim's pants? God. And he was so…level-headed about it. Well, of course he was, John thought. He was Sherlock, after all. He could stare a naked dominatrix in the eye without being tempted to glance down for anything more than cold, hard measurements; he could definitely watch John walk around the flat in some drug trafficker's well-fitting underwear to solve a murder. John supposed he was about the same build as the victim; from Sherlock's point of view, using John as a model probably made the most sense. Anyway, that was about all the thought he cared to give it, and probably really all the thought he _could _give it right now without his head exploding (of headache or embarrassment, either would do). "So, you want me to do the trimmest first, and…?"

"Yes, excellent plan. Let's do that. I expect you'll be feeling much better by the time you return, so be prepared to get straight to work. Don't so much as enter the room unprepared, and we can square this away within the day."

John suspected that would be impossible. (John was correct, but not for the reasons he was thinking of at that moment.) But he simply nodded and left the flat for the crime scene, and left Sherlock to whatever Sherlock did while waiting for his hung over flatmate to come home in somebody else's tight red pants.

... ... ...

John arrived at the scene without event, and feeling a bit better. He wasn't sure if he was simply getting used to the pounding through his ears and eyes, or if his breakfast was starting to make a difference, but he was thankful either way. Everything was, at least, beginning to make more sense. Sherlock had certainly spent some time considering the dresser the day before; maybe he had concluded that choosing to bring the socks home instead of the pants was a mistake, was not conclusive enough. Sure enough, John located three pairs of red pants in the top drawer, neatly folded. And it was true—absolutely everything about this bloke was neat. Aside from the folds he'd left when he'd collapsed onto them dead, his bedsheets had been perfectly flat and crisp.

He was clearly patient—but, John supposed, the careless and impatient were probably weeded out of the higher levels of criminal rings pretty quickly. The man had been in the process of folding some elaborate origami piece; he kept a bonsai tree atop his dresser, although by this point, with no one to care for it, it was suffering. John doubted he would find a single piece of lint amongst the carpet fibers if he took the time to look.

After John spent fifteen minutes debating whether the man's magenta pants were meant to be counted as close enough to red pants—because of course Sherlock hadn't told him why the red was significant—he realized that he was trying to delay the inevitable. He stacked them amongst the others just to be safe and glanced into the drawer for any other candidates. Nothing else too close to red—no, and with John's luck, he would have to go through all the red pants and then it—whatever Sherlock was looking for—would be the magenta ones. He'd have to pace about the flat in pink pants to Sherlock's satisfaction.

(You might have guessed that John's moment of immense regret is quickly approaching. You would be correct.)

With one final sigh, John left the crime scene four pairs of pants short of what it had been an hour before.

... ... ...

John wondered how necessary it was that he follow Sherlock's instructions to the letter.

He probably should have gotten it over with and put the pants on while he was at the crime scene. Now he was inside the building but stuck at the door to B, weighing his options. Sherlock was immensely inconvenient when he became irritated during a case; doubly if it was something he thought John _obviously _should have known to do. Mrs. Hudson was home, but it was unlikely she'd come out into the hallway to visit B within the next minute. John nodded to himself resolutely. He could handle this. He could certainly stand about with his arse under Sherlock's scrutiny, and he could soldier through it, and manage to make it through the ordeal without once imagining Sherlock was staring at his crotch for reasons other than the case, pacing and measuring and—

—and this was definitely not something to be thinking about right now, John thought, as he peeled his trousers and pants off and slipped the murderer's on. He'd have to trust Sherlock's judgment that there wasn't anything wrong with them—he wouldn't make John try them on otherwise, would he? The victim was so neat, anyway, drug lord or not. And true to what Sherlock had said, they fit…well. They fit well.

No point putting his trousers back on—as Sherlock had already made clear, he would want to see the pants, and it would only be worse if John had to strip in front of him. After a moment of consideration, John pulled off his shirt as well, for the same reason; it obscured the white band, which was probably somehow important.

"Right," John muttered to himself. "Okay, Watson, you're a big boy; you can handle this." He devoted a great deal of focus to ensuring that he was not associating this scenario with any similar thoughts he'd had about situations in which he'd be wearing nothing but pants for Sherlock. Not that he thought about that a lot, well, at least not an unhealthy amount, so it was fine. Of course.

John's several seconds of immense, gut-wrenching regret came when he entered the flat wearing nothing but the victim's red pants.

This icy weight in his stomach originated primarily from the fact that a severely wilted fern was now sitting on the table beside a series of microscope slides, several small bottles of chemicals, and one propped-up book titled: "Why Your Plants Are Dead: Antiobiotics and Plant DNA."

Red pants? No.

No.

_Dead._

_ Plants._

All the comments about neatness and trim. The dead bonsai. God. Oh god. Sherlock had said "dead plants" and John, stupid John, John with his pounding head and fuzzy mind and godawful hangover, John had heard "red pants."

These were John's several seconds of immense regret.

"I think I may have misunderstood something," John managed through a tight throat.

"I'll say," Sherlock raised his eyebrows, sitting back from his microscope.

John ran a hand through his hair. "Oh my god, Sherlock, the evidence, the plants, I am so sorry—"

"Don't be." Sherlock carefully pushed the microscope back, lifted the book from the stand, and slowly slid a bookmark up the cleft of the pages before snapping it shut. "I can still take a look."

"Wh…"

Sherlock stood abruptly, and John wondered if he was imagining the red tinge to Sherlock's cheeks. "There may yet be some evidence I can gather from this," he muttered, approaching John with the grace and patience of a prowling jaguar. John stood stock still as Sherlock drew nearer; as he noticed Sherlock's dilated pupils, he felt his own skin heat up. This was obviously actually all in his head. He was going to wake up with his hangover, and maybe, if he didn't wake up soon, a sticky stomach.

"Evidence?" John muttered. Or perhaps didn't. He could be sure if any sound came from his very dry mouth.

"Indeed," Sherlock closed the distance between them with one final step and a sweep of his hand across John's groin, his fingers coming to rest beneath his balls, his palm curling up to press into John's growing erection through the red pants. He breathed against John's ear in hot, humid puffs. "Evidence."

"What sort of evidence?"

"I hypothesize," Sherlock muttered, and John could feel his lips along the edge of his ear, "that you," Sherlock wiggled his fingers slightly, shifting John's testicles, and John shuffled with uncomfortable and growing need, "enjoy this."

John swallowed and nodded.

"How long?" Sherlock asked, his voice suddenly clinical.

"_What_?"

"For how long have you wanted it? Did it start just now?"

"Sherlock," John huffed, "you're not nearly as observant as you claim to be."

This time, Sherlock flushed. "Well, at least _my_ hearing is fully operational."

"You _arse_," John rumbled, and before he had time to think about it twice, grabbed either side of Sherlock's head and pulled him forward, groaning into his mouth as they connected. Sherlock's unoccupied hand reached around to John's back to press them together; his occupied hand squeezed lightly, and John could not restrain himself from grinding up against it.

This is the aforementioned time John very much ceased to regret his decision to go to the pub with Lestrade, despite that it led to a rather nasty hangover that caused him to completely mishear Sherlock. Incidentally, this was also the point at which Sherlock ceased to regret not retrieving John from the pub before he could get so carried away.

"Bamboo," Sherlock muttered as John rubbed the fabric against his hand, "interesting." He dragged his hand up onto John's belly and then back down, pausing with his fingertips just under the elastic. The hand on John's back followed suit, but continued further down, fingers nudging their way between his cheeks. "Very tight, rarely used," he whispered. His mouth had made its way back to John's ear along the underside of his jaw, and John gasped.

John reached forward, tugged at Sherlock's trousers until they slipped down partway around his legs, and grinned as if suddenly conscious. "Wow."

"What?"

"Nothing," John shook his head, "just…" He chuckled. "You and me, in our pants," John shook his head, chuckling, and caught Sherlock by surprise when he gulped down any remaining shyness and drove his hand down Sherlock's pants to grab his arse. "Groping each other."

"Inevitable," Sherlock said, but didn't seem convinced; he was beaming.

"Fantastic."

"And very informative." Sherlock crouched down to get a better view of John's pants (obviously) and tentatively pressed his mouth against them, exhaling. John whimpered. It appeared the pants were going to require more thorough investigation than he'd imagined…and that was fine.

... ... ...

As Sherlock and John concluded their investigations some forty-five minutes later, John rolled onto his back with a deep sigh, kissing Sherlock's shoulder. The red pants had been abandoned downstairs in the sitting room and were being discovered by Mrs. Hudson at this very moment. Sherlock turned his head to look at the top of John's, nestled against his arm. "You are entirely too unpredictable, John."

"Thanks." Sherlock could feel the creases by John's mouth as he grinned into Sherlock's skin.

"I'd question how you got from my description that I wanted you to model red pants in the middle of the sitting room…" A smirk crept onto his face that added, _But I'm rather too pleased with the outcome to care._

John shifted and propped himself up on his elbow. "So what was it, then? With the…dead plants?"

"The murderer brought more of the poison than he needed—he administered just enough that it wouldn't be immediately obvious what had been used."

"To buy himself time, since tests had to be run after the body was found." John stretched one leg until his toes brushed against Sherlock's.

"Exactly. Thinking himself clever, he disposed of the excess in one of the man's plants. I recall seeing a dead one…"

"A bonsai, on top of the dresser."

"Yes, that's the one. It happens that it killed the tree, and quickly. If the tree had died a natural death, or one of a different poison, it would have grown out slightly in the time since the victim died, and since it was so well-cared-for in the first place, any growth would have been obvious. But it was still perfectly trimmed, wasn't it?"

"Yeah."

"That narrows down the possibilities for the poisons greatly, and we can test the soil and tree for traces."

"So…do you…want me to go back to the scene and get it?" And probably return the red pants, he supposed, although that would be a shame. (He didn't know, but probably should have guessed, that Sherlock had already mentally catalogued the brand, fit, and size, and the next time he had a laptop handy, would order several pairs of them for John.)

"Leave it for tomorrow. I need to gather some further observations on the current evidence."

This is the end of one story about red pants—the first one, anyway. Its last line is more misleading than its first:

"Oh god, _must_ you?"


End file.
